


We're all emotional machines.

by heizl



Series: To Be Human [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Development, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gavin Reed Backstory, Long, Love/Hate, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Series, Slow Build, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: It’s hard to be vulnerable, because being vulnerable means letting down your shield, letting people in, letting them see the real you. All your cracks and imperfections. You're more susceptible to judgement, and no one likes to be judged. Gavin knew all too well how that game went. Every time he let someone be part of his world, they rang him dry for their own gain, spat him out when they grew bored of him. Bullies are bullies because they project their insecurities onto those that they deem as weaker than themselves. It makes them feel less scared.See, Gavin hadn't always been a massive dick. Growing up, him and Tina were attached at the hip. Never apart, shared and did everything together. And, literally everything; it was almost like Gavin lived at her house. Everyone liked him, he was popular in school. But that all changed the second he became bitter and drove everyone away. Shut out his friends, his parents, his coworkers. He didn't even try to get along with people anymore because it didn't seem worth it.That's why he doesn't understand why the fuck Nines is trying so hard to get close. After everything he'd done, the shit Gavin said, why did Nines still want to be part of his life? It was frustrating.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Series: To Be Human [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773634
Kudos: 13





	We're all emotional machines.

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is a continuation of [Was it worth it, or not?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23112466/chapters/55300390)
> 
> **Recap:**
> 
> It’s been nearly two weeks since Fowler pulled Gavin into his office and tried to pass an action figure off as his ‘partner’. Once the initial shock was over that he was expected to play nice with plastic, he thought he could deal with it; he used to babysit when he was younger, and he wasn’t all that bad at double tasking. But as the days went by, Nines seemed more resistant to listen to Gavin, or do anything he said. And now, to make matters worse, Nines was talking back to him.
> 
> It felt like he was making no progress in their investigation, spending most of his time too pissed off at Nines to focus on reassessing clues. Not to mention the very basis of their case was laughable; apparently the orders Warren made stated androids should be held in camps until further notice. Not murdered. There was some severe miscommunication down the line. Gavin got that this was his job, but he didn’t fucking care if ten or ten thousand androids died. It was all the same to him. Burnt rubble. 
> 
> Well… maybe he did care if one in particular died. Not that he’d ever openly admit that. He just… wouldn’t be able to get his papers sorted as quick without Nines. That was all. He wasn’t starting to care.

More often than not as we grow older, we molt from an idealized shell of what we expected adulthood to be like. This picture perfect reality where we have a typical (boring) nine to five office job that allows us to live comfortably, a quaint house built in the late sixties that you’ve already put a deposit down for, and you’re prepared to pay off your mortgage for the foreseeable future. A doting husband, or wife, by your side, and a healthy child that you sacrifice your goals and desires for, for the sake of their happiness. This image that’s been strewn together from television shows and movies— and it’s already more accurate than when you believed you could become an astronaut, or anyone of importance. That promise your parents tell you as a child that everything’s going to be alright. That life isn’t a complete and utter whirlwind of betrayal, agony, and thirty seven years of ongoing suffering.

We become the things we’ve always feared most: our parents, an eerily uncanny form of a past abuser that still haunts you in your night terrors. The sort of villain you’d boo at in comics as a kid. It was a combination of these three for Gavin, plus a cocktail of various other ailments of asshole. For a guy that’d never been keen on bullies, fucking laughed in the direction of the dumb jock that picked on some pasty kid with glasses for reading comics in the lunchroom, just being himself… you couldn’t even call it ironic that that’s _exactly_ what he’d become. Fuck, wasn’t the whole reason he joined law enforcement because he _wanted_ to help people? Protect those that couldn’t fend for themselves, make a goddamn difference in this corrupt world that benefited others and mattered. What his brother _failed_ to do. What everyone thought he was incapable of (and, currently, he was only proving them right).

Abandonment, rejection, hatred. The shit that plagued him. And, yeah, he loathed those three things. Feared them more than anything else, _truly_. When people met Gavin, their first reaction was not fondness, or endearment. Hell, they’d hardly remember his name, other than thinking, _‘oh, you mean that asshole from the other day?’._ Others were filled with this _urge_ and _want_ to avoid his very presence like he was a radioactive ticking time bomb. He’d tried, tried his damnedest to keep a stable group of friends he could shoot the shit with, have interaction outside of work that was the bare minimum but would keep him from falling deep into the pits of a two week long binge of getting piss drunk and locking himself inside VR until he’d pass out on his couch, television on and apartment a mess. His preferred unhealthy coping skill for dreaded loneliness. 

He’d tried to have movie nights with Tina, recreate the old times where they’d stay up all night chit-chatting about the future, gossiping about boys, dicking around on Omegle like they were teenagers again. But, it never fucking worked out for him. No one wanted to be around Gavin. If his cat had a sense of awareness, he was certain she’d pack up her bags and move out too. In a man’s eye, Gavin was nothing more than an easy fuck. A decent looking body to warm a bed for a few hours, not even a full night. Couldn’t keep a friend, and he hadn’t since freshman year of college. He couldn’t imagine making it past that step anymore— how the fuck was he supposed to form a connection with someone when he presented himself as having _no_ personality, other than being a bitter, pessimistic bitch? No wonder guys dropped him the second they got their fix. The thought of friendship was a joke, but daydreaming over holding a steady, healthy relationship was like… rubbing a freshly cut lemon against a self inflicted wound. 

It was easier bringing out that reaction by force, sparking that thought of disgust, pulling that hatred out of others firsthand, _forcing_ people to fucking despise him before they could really decide for themselves _who_ Gavin was. Better than waiting patiently with a target painted on your back. This hurt less. He was done having an open heart— he knew how he wanted others to see him, and he was _damn_ good at getting his point across. See, that’s the thing about being selfish: it’s all about protecting _yourself_. Tweaking things to your advantage, not experiencing pain unless it’s self induced because at least it could be controlled that way. And, it’s not like Gavin woke up one random morning and announced to the world that he was going to become the textbook definition of a narcissist. Why the fuck would he do that _willingly_? Go from the popular kid who could get any guy, any girl he met swooning, had twelve dozen friends he could always count on to party with, help him out if he was ever in need.

Everyone has their breaking points, and he reached his, and he was fucking done. Done caring about himself, about the people around him that he _thought_ cared in return, the ones he falsely believed had his back. His parents that always favored his brother, the twelve dozen that only liked Gavin because he was their designated drunk driver, Tina until she got a ring on her finger. Deep inside of him, Gavin had this tragic sob story that he’d throw private pity parties for, the reason he kept the yearbooks from highschool, the bookmarked articles anytime his brother was published in US weekly or interviewed by Time. He’d watch clips of his brother that earned ten million views, skimmed an article about their station (Tina and Hank were mentioned, Chris even. But, not him, because of fucking course he wasn’t). And he’d do this only so he could feel worse about just how shitty his life was behind closed doors. 

About the shit he kept to himself that made him _so_ damn bitter and snap like a turtle anytime someone showed even a sliver of warmth towards him. And, Gavin wasn’t ready to share it yet— not that he’d ever want to, ever be _ready_ to— but especially not this early in a story that reluctantly kept writing itself, involving a cast that was so much better than him. That when he looked at a specific bunch of them, he’d feel like he was constantly being prodded by an electric poker. Kind of like the time he tased himself in training (...on accident, yeah.) 

Gavin felt like… people had to earn their rights to learn about him. People just needed to _ask_ and stop expecting him to present himself like an open library book. He didn’t work like that, not anymore. You couldn’t rent him and put him back on a dusty shelf when you were done with him, forgetting about him, letting his pages wither and tear and rot. Waiting for the next person to come along and do the same thing all fucking over again. He knew people in their precinct gossiped, overheard Anderson countless times making some snide remark under his breath to Jeffrey about how much of a prick he was, how kids never showed respect anymore. Jokes about how he needed to just get laid, needed a guy to settle down with and he wouldn’t have a need for having a stick up his ass twenty four seven.

We all pick up habits we swore as kids to never touch, like occasionally spending money recklessly on bullshit you don’t really need, or never touching your stove because cooking is _so_ overrated. Drinking for fun until it becomes not so silly and you black out, wake up in some guy’s bed who you don’t even remember the name of. Smoking in casual settings because it helps calm your nerves, and casual turns into every evening below the vent in your bathroom. Gavin was always three things: bitter as hell no matter the mood or time of day you caught him in, silver tongued because he _loved_ watching people crawl in their skin, loved getting people so pissed off it got physical and he could feel warmth trickle down his cheek (the warmth he preferred nowadays). And, finally, melodramatic. If that wasn’t already obvious. Every minor inconvenience turned into an outburst of feigned rage, and he liked to pass his time by getting too caught up in his own thoughts only for the sake of feeling sorry for himself. Poor Gavin. Poor man who did this all to himself, literally making everyone despise him by his own design.

Standing here in a beaten down gas station a few blocks from the precinct, fuming over Nines. And because, why, Nines stopped taking his shit and put Gavin in his place? Jealous, maybe, because Nines didn’t have to host inner wars with _feelings_? Gavin had been called every nickname known to man, new obscenities had been created _solely_ to describe him. So _why_ was Nines the one getting under his skin this time, because this was nothing he wasn’t already used to. He tapped his fingers against the counter. Maybe because plastic wasn’t supposed to fight back? Plastic was supposed to fucking listen and work for humans, take his orders and do what he fucking said. He could blame all his anger on the fact he was forced to be in this position in the first place, expected to act like a walking soup can was anywhere near as intelligent as he was. Trying to imagine Nines _wasn’t_ the one making him feel angst he hadn’t experienced since he was seventeen. All because he’d tried to pry into his personal life the other night; pestering that was near innocent, he’d entertained because he was _bored_ (that’s what he was calling it).

Questions along the lines of: if Gavin had any pets because Nines knew Anderson had a dog, and what his favorite meal was so Nines could pick it up sometime (nagging because all he ate was coffee, _apparently_ ). But, then that turned into what he liked to do in his free time and when Gavin gave Nines a genuine answer, that if he was feeling lazy it was video games, if he was stuck in his own head it was a walk down by the river (could go for one of those right about now), and if he was creative, that meant coding, building, sketching— he wasn’t good at coding, he couldn’t even consider himself decent, but in an attempt to make some extra pocket change, he freelanced for developers that desperately needed an extra hand. 

So he asked: ‘Where did you learn how to code’, and Gavin, being brain dead and over tired, replied: ‘My brother’. _Where did you grow up_ , and _Does your brother live in Detroit?_ and _What does your brother do for a living?_. Fuck, that’s why he was upset. Because he asked just a little too much, started digging a wound that Gavin couldn’t control the depth of, couldn’t quick fix with a bandaid, couldn’t stop by just not thinking about it. Nines acting like _it_ cared, acting like _it_ wanted to get to know _him_ , acting that _it_ had any feelings or self awareness other than what was programmed into its motherboard. Gavin experienced first hand how cold Nines was, how it could stare death straight in the eye without blinking. 

His teeth were grit, breathing making his nostrils flair like a dragon blowing smoke. So he focused on the little irks surrounding him; you’d think by 2038 the dumbass irritants of life would be solved, like when a place such as this shitty establishment tries playing an even shittier pop song off the radio, but you can’t hear it anyways because there’s a cooler mimicking a rocket taking off. Or the damn computer that had been taking _three_ whole minutes to ring up the one singular drink Gavin didn’t even need in the first place, giving him this wonderful time to rant for no one other than his conscious to hear (and loathe). It seemed like the future was too focused on implementing neon lights into everything and popping out plastic problem makers instead of fixing life’s _actual_ problems. 

Gavin slid a twenty towards the cashier when the computer finally made a ding, a sign that he was one step closer to walking out that door and figuring out his next plan of action. It was surprising, seeing someone behind a register that was actual flesh and bone. There were more human service workers now since a large majority of androids had been recalled, or, rather ripped away from their positions without notice— but it wasn’t a sight he’d seen since he was a teen. Since before fucking Cyberlife, since he was in Boston, worrying about what band posters he’d fill his room with. And, no, he didn’t answer Nines’ questions because, like he’d said, you had to _earn_ the answers. 

Nines didn’t deserve to know Gavin had willingly moved to Detroit after Cyberlife’s success. That he could’ve gone to school _anywhere,_ could’ve roomed with Tina back in their hometown (and, this was before she transferred here herself, right around the point their friendship took a massive dive off a cliff). Instead of attending a police academy in Massachusetts, or New York, or Pennsylvania even, he came to Michigan under the false pretense he’d have the same luck that his brother had. Luck had never been on his side, and all Gavin had going for him was a streak of wondering why he'd wasted his time. When he first came here, he had found 'friends', or, _acquaintances—_ people that would gather every Sunday night at an old junkyard and place high bets on which dilapidated last season Cyberlife model would be first in destroying its opponents, before ultimately killing itself. As much as androids filled him with insatiable rage... he had his limits.

He’d been living here ten something years and never once cared enough to properly furnish an apartment and call it home, because Michigan wasn’t his home. Not like Boston felt much homier either. His family sure wasn’t _home_ to him.

“Have a nice day.” Gavin’s eyes snapped up. He pocketed his change, didn’t feel inclined to respond to rehearsed sentiment, and so he silently turned on his heel and left. He pulled back the metal tab of the energy drink that he knew would make him feel less energetic and more spastic and anxious, but whatever, he didn’t care. He was trying to cut back on smoking _so_ much— he’d recently been burning through several cartons every few days, and his wallet was starting to ache from it. 

Despite being nearly December, it wasn’t absolute shit out. Nice enough not to have to wear a heavy jacket (while still needing _something_ covering your arms), no gloves or scarves just yet. Clear skies too. Any snow from the past few days had disappeared, like that brief blizzard never happened. Which was good, because he hated driving in the snow. People in Michigan couldn’t drive for shit. Fuck, he’d take busy city rush hour traffic over horrible u-turns and people riding on his ass any day. So that was the thing he was thankful for today, he guessed. A few more days to enjoy not wanting to slam on his breaks and purposely start an accident just so he didn’t have to drive anymore. 

He took a long sip of the concoction he knew was composed of sugar, mostly chemicals— mostly chemicals that were going to be the cause of his early death. He just needed a second to breathe. Get away from that place, from the yelling and phones ringing, from familiar faces that sneered in his direction. But, apparently, that task was harder to achieve than he thought. Because nothing was nice about the sight approaching him. Sometimes he questioned if his life was a spoof of the Truman Show. Spontaneous things always happening right on cue, like a goddamn soap opera. Trying not to think _too_ hard about Nines, ignore the problem that _was_ Nines, and now here it was.

One minute to himself. That’s all he wanted. He knew he’d have to face Nines eventually, because he needed to work— his partner, the case, didn’t matter if he disagreed with either. He needed to finish the task at hand, and he wasn’t going to ignore going back _forever_. But, for once, for the first time in twenty years, he wanted to be able to think before he spoke. On one hand, he knew his resentment was irrational (to an extent, pieces were justifiable). Did that make him _want_ to stop being spiteful, make him want to be buddy buddy with Nines? Hell fucking no. But he didn’t want to say something stupid to the first— not person, but… animate object —who asked him something deeper than ‘my place or yours’. He didn’t want to regret his next words, and, there wasn’t a lot Gavin regretted anymore. Another quick swig and he grit his teeth.

Oh, the range of expression these advanced Ken dolls could muster would always impress Gavin. With their silicone skin, everything was hyper realistic; wrinkles to a raised forehead (despite never naturally having them, never being able to grow old, to age), creases and laughter lines when one would smile. More than enough times during an interrogation, androids would mimic what nervousness might look like. Rapid blinking, hands being rubbed together, feet tapping a fast-paced beat. But, he wasn’t impressed because he believed there was some sort of soul bouncing around in that hardware, but because it was _cute_. They tried so hard to fit in with the herd that they only became black sheep. 

Here Nines was, stopped abruptly, inches away from him, and Jesus, this model was huge. Taller than Connor even, it felt like Nines loomed over him, like staring up at a damn skyscraper. Nines’ dark brows were furrowed as if to mimic being downright pissed off, the kind of look Gavin could tell was accompanied hand in hand with a deep fire burning within the pit of your stomach. A wildfire that was inextinguishable. Not like Nines could _feel_ that, but, Gavin knew. Narrow melting pots of caramel, those eyes looking more like marbles, and they were so venomously slit, like a tiger patiently watching its prey, a cobra waiting for the right time to strike. Cheek _bones_ only more devilishly defined from hastily being sucked in, finger tapping against a sleeve. 

But, there was no change to Nines’ complexion: skin as pale as sour oatmilk, with an even balance all around. No hints of tomato colored splotches, no pink burning at the tips of ears, nothing that would indicate being flustered in the slightest. He wouldn’t know Nines was irritated if it weren’t for the mimicked traits. 

Gavin was staring, he already knew, and accepted that. He stared at a lot of people, always passed it off as being lost in thought, or that he was judging. He wasn’t exactly judging Nines, more so… studying. Drawn to watching Nines’ hand run through a field of unnaturally silky brown locks, each strand of hair voluminous enough that a hairdresser would be sick with envy. Nines’ hair was too perfect, nothing out of place, still styled, even as fingers spread apart and combed through. The smoothing was for naught, because it seemed like the hair hardly _moved._

Watching Nines was like… like watching a doc on Animal Planet. Learning about a new species for the very first time. And although he wasn’t an A+ student in his younger years, hated history and anything to do with documentaries normally, he wanted to study this specimen. Now whether he wanted to accept it or not, this is exactly what he did when he went to some sleazy nightclub, found a cute guy, and made up his mind that he wanted to take him home and have his way with him. Same steps; mouth sort of agape, mind a little hazy, eyes glued to his subject. Didn’t mean shit in _this_ situation, but it was an interesting… observation. Nines was sculpted to be a pretty face, didn’t automatically mean Gavin was jumping at a chance to touch it up close. 

And this is also when Gavin realized Nines wasn’t in a jacket. Not the usual black turtleneck that gave off hipster coffee shop owner vibes, not his favorite leather bomber he lent out (again, didn’t mean _shit_ , and it wasn’t supposed to be up for grabs, it just happened), or the obnoxiously pristine, and brighter than a lighthouse, Cyberlife issue. It was some weird sweater he didn’t recognize— still dark in colors, no crazy design or pattern, but too short in the hem. Gavin didn’t know where it was from, because Nines didn’t have extra pairs of clothes. Nines didn’t have a place to _go_ and change into them. No home, no cheap motel room, and Anderson hadn’t offered the same hospitality as he had to Connor. 

He could see the outline of the cigarette burn he’d left this morning, right under the collar. Wasn’t shiny or red, wasn’t even angry looking. It looked more like how a healed scar would. Hm. Guess androids didn’t bounce back as fast as he’d thought, then.

The way Nines’ arms were kept still, straight down at the side reminded him of his highschool’s trip to England. He could never afford them usually, but his brother offered to pay during his senior year. He wanted to deny, but he also wanted a chance to get the fuck out of America, and if he was given the opportunity to get as far away from his family as possible for a week, he was going to take it. Nines was stiff like a marble statue, standing like a Queen’s guard, only this came naturally because there were no muscle spasms to worry about, no involuntary twitches. 

“ _Reed_.” Nines fucking _growled_ at him, fully animalistic, fully sounding like Gavin was about to get another fist to his face. And _fuck_ , he forgot how low Nines’ voice sounded now. Even though _he_ was the one that requested the voice change. Fuck, it made him _shiver_ in all the _right_ ways, made goosebumps rise on his arms, made him feel like they were surrounded thigh deep in snow. Their eyes were locked, and there wasn’t any color left in Nines’. All black, they looked.

He quirked his own dark brows, can pressed to his lips as he took another sip, forcing out a lackluster smirk, full of false security. “Lunchbox.”

But Nines’ next words of choice came as a surprise. “Are you intoxicated?” Because Gavin immediately started choking, wiping at his mouth with the back of his palm, almost laughing from the absurdity of that kind of fucking question. 

“Sorry, _what_?”

“Are you asking what as in you didn’t hear the question, or would you like me to elaborate further?” 

“The _latter_.”

Arms folded, posture straight, and no sense of amusement. “Alright. Let’s see.” Oh God, what was this. His own private interrogation? 

Nines started: “You have been acting irrationally, and more so, impulsively, since nine o’ clock this morning. With you being quite eccentric, this wouldn’t be too far-fetched from your norm, but frankly that's not the case today.”

Gavin huffed. Why was he even humoring this. “What did I do that was irrational? _Or_ impulsive?”

“At nine thirty six, you received a call from your mother, which you didn’t want to answer, so you had me redirect her. At nine forty two, she called you back on your personal phone, and you blocked her number. Then, at eleven thirteen, you made a costly purchase that totalled two hundred dollars. Also, you _burnt_ me.”

“And, that’s all made you come to the conclusion that I’m drunk?”

“No. I was not finished. You have been standing here in a daze as I am trying to talk to you, ignoring me word for word, which, usually anything I say is met by some quick jab or remark. Not to mention that your pupils are dilated, your cheeks are quite flushed, and your heart rate is above nine beats per your average. So, I will repeat myself and ask again— _are_ you intoxicated?”

This wasn’t fun anymore. No, fuck this. Maybe he didn’t have a headache earlier, but he could definitely feel one coming on now. He felt like someone was holding a plastic bag over his head. He couldn’t _breathe_. His lungs, collapsed. Throat, closed. No air coming in or out. He didn’t feel dizzy, but the ground underneath his boots was rapidly spinning like a tilt-a-whirl. He didn’t know what he should hyper-focus more on; that Nines _still_ fucking scanned him despite Gavin pleading at least a hundred times that he was fine, that he hated being scanned, that it was fucking gross and creepy. He _despised_ it. Or, that Nines knew Gavin was flustered. Maybe didn’t know for sure, because Gavin’s being accused of being drunk at work (which, hey, guilty on occasion, who isn’t. But those questions are much better reserved for someone else, and not him). 

Regardless, Nines knew something was off. Yeah, he didn’t have any funny quips stowed up his sleeve. No insult loaded to fire back about Nines droning on, how annoying that voice was (because, it wasn’t, that’s _what_ made him lose focus, and now, made him _panic_ ). Nothing about how Nines looked like an adorable toddler copying its mommy, trying to express emotion like a bad actor (no, Nines seemed _genuinely_ upset). 

He blinked, cleared his throat rather harshly, and then shifted on his feet. “No.”

Nines nodded, head tilting side to side. He couldn’t tell what Nines was thinking. Why Nines even bothered to come out here. He was coming back, it wasn’t that big of a goddamn deal.

“Then, detective,” hands rubbing together slowly, like a conclusion had been found. “I believe I must file a report that you’re under the influence of illegal substances.” And then heel clicked to concrete, and Nines was spinning around in one graceful swoop, marching back in the direction of the precinct. Gavin’s eyes widened. Definitely had a headache now. 

“ _Wait_ ,” Gavin almost tripped himself, nails digging into what felt like cashmere. Pulling maybe too hard, because he heard threads tear. “Can we just—” Nines met his wavering gaze, neck craned over a broad shoulder. “...back it up a little bit and not accuse me of being a druggie, for Christ’s sake.”

A sigh, and then another slight nod. “I don’t understand why you’re acting weird.”

“I’m _not_.”

“You are. Reed, are you all right? Truly.”

What a fucking stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay, and he could feel something nasty forming on the tip of his tongue. It was getting harder to hold back his choice words, harder to not say something that bring their hatred to a _mutual_ status. But Nines really was a crock of shit, asking if he was fine when Nines had been there with him, knew everything that happened earlie. Was the cause of the majority of it. The humiliation, the zero empathy that anyone would categorize as sociopathic that androids were graciously exempt from. All swept under a rug. Nines leaving him with his own questions and returning like everything was peachy keen, watching Gavin drop dried crimson tissue after tissue into the trash because his nose wouldn’t stop leaking. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed. Lying was easier. “I’m fine.”

Nines look disappointed. He didn’t know how else to describe it, other than that. “You graduated valedictorian with one of the highest ranks in your class, exceptional for your age. You’ve earned numerous awards and gratitude from this state. And yet, you’re stupid enough to think that I, of anyone that knows you, won’t be able to see through your lies.” 

Gavin chewed his lower lip. “I said I’m fine. Drop it. Not intoxicated, don’t use drugs to begin with. Don’t trust me, you can test me when we get back. Actin’ like a fuckin’ know-it-all, yet you don’t know shit.”

“I’ve been _worried_ about you, Reed.” 

Gavin winced. It’s this shit that really pissed him off and made him want to turn in the other direction, and _run_. Not only because it gave him false hope that maybe, _maybe_ , someone could tolerate him, someone could actually deal with his shit and mess of a person. That maybe, even if Nines didn’t bleed the same color as him, he could find something akin to a… friend in Nines. But he didn’t want to think that— oh it didn’t fucking matter whether Nines was an android or not (though, Gavin still refused to comply with Connor and use pronouns). This was about Gavin cocooning himself before the hurt happened again, because it always did. Didn’t let anyone past his concrete wall. The second he found comfort in anyone, found friendship it… it wasn’t worth it. God, why did Nines keep fucking _trying_. It was almost sadistic that Nines still treated him with decency. That Nines acted like it could ever feel a drop of remorse, ever _feel_ something for Gavin.

He rubbed his nose, and then sniffled. His hands felt cold against his skin. “No, you haven’t.”

“Don’t tell me how I do, or don’t, feel.”

“I just di—”

“Please, for once in your life, shut _up_. I know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah? Tell me.”

“You’re trying to control me. Because you don’t like that I _am_ feeling worried about you. Is that why you’re irritable and can’t keep still? Because of the other night, me wanting to get to know you? Because of this morning? Because I did not react in a way that you wanted me to?”

Gavin quickly looked away, staring past Nines. Down the street, where he could see pedestrians walking about. At least no one was coming near them. “You know, congrats, you found me. Why don’t we get heading back now, hm?” And then he clapped Nines’ shoulder, made the motion of moving past the tall fucking object in his way. But his legs didn’t seem to want to move. He felt paralyzed in place. 

“I asked around the station where you were, and no one had any answers. I didn’t know if you had walked off and resigned in a fit of rage, or if you’d gone home for the day, though I knew your car was still there. So I thought something happened to you. As in, you were hurt.”

Gavin’s huff was louder than before, a visible puff of hot air. “I’m done talking about this. Let’s go.”

Nines’ fingers were wrapped around his wrist. A handcuff he couldn’t escape from. “Please, detective, may you take a moment out of your _busy_ schedule to explain to me why you see it appropriate to disappear without notice? When I left you a thought-out note detailing where I’ve gone, and I am the one that gets the backhand.”

“It’s been,” he grumbled, huffing as he slipped his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. Jesus, it’d been almost two hours. “I haven’t been gone _that_ long. You don’t need to know where I am every goddamn minute of the day.”

“I never said I _did_. But I’d appreciate a heads up when you decide to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking, I just needed a fuckin’ break. From _you_. Which you ain’t even allowing me anymore— so there’s no fucking point to this conversation. If you wanna go back to the station, then let’s just fucking go back and stop the sideshow act. C’mon, people are staring, it’s getting cold, and I don’t have anything nice left to say. Don’t want to keep pissing me off, do you?”

Maybe it was a miracle, maybe it was Nines letting him go willingly. But, he yanked his wrist free, and he began walking with his head down. He _was_ sulking. And he was like a puppy with his tail between his legs, like a kid scolded by their mother. Defeated and not wanting to talk to anyone for the rest of the evening. Embarrassed, because he didn’t know what the fuck he was feeling any more; if it was frustration that Nines gave him false hope that someone _cared_ , that he couldn’t be left alone, or guilt _for_ walking out unannounced. Guilt because he genuinely wanted to say ‘hey, you know what Nines, no. I’m not okay’, and he couldn’t. Or, was it just a deep stabbing sort of pain in his gut, because he really just… wanted to believe that Nines maybe did care about him. He still couldn’t believe Nines thought he was fucking drunk. 

“Reed.” Footsteps were dragging behind, but not yet matching his own pace. His name fell on deaf ears, and he kept focused on the dirtied pavement. 

“ _Reed_.” Nines tried again, louder. Authority in the way his name was said. Gavin wasn’t interested in what he was selling. That was until his feet were dangling in the air and he was hoisted over to a patch of grass. Gavin was dropped before he had time to react, time to kick at Nines’ shins (not like that would do much) because he hated being lifted. His brother used to do that to him, grab him and throw him over his shoulder, tease him for being ‘little G’. That nickname made him barf. He _wasn't_ short, he was _average_ height. 

“We are going to talk, and you are going to _listen_. Understood?” 

His mouth opened, but Nines repeated that last word. He nodded. He could taste his heartbeat, feel each throb of his pulse from the tip of his fingers to the roof of his mouth. Feel his toes quivering because as much as he loved negative attention, he hated confrontation like this. Not to mention they were still in a, mostly, public setting. He didn’t like the spotlight, didn’t like being called out, and it had been so long since someone _had_. He hated that sometimes, with Nines, it felt like he was just talking to another coworker. Which was downright deceitful, because Nines wasn’t his goddamn equal. A tool, nothing more than that. A powerful computer. He had to remind himself sometimes. Not his partner (only on this case, that hopefully wouldn’t span out more than three months or so). Not his friend. 

Nines’ expression had drastically changed, much softer, much more… somber. Lips like a thin line, could see the tension in Nines’ neck, breathing more hitched and human-like than it should’ve been. And then he saw that little circular LED turn red; it was slow, a blending between yellow until the color was vibrant, like staring at the sun. He’d never seen it change colors before.

“I shouldn’t have hit you. I was out of line, I _know_ that, and I _am_ sorry. I want— need —to be able to work with you, and I feel like… every time we talk, we’re only further wedged apart and have less of an understanding. In order for us to be able to successfully make progress on this case, we _need_ to be able to be within five feet of each other, and not feel as if the other is holding us hostage. Because, that is how you feel, isn’t it?”

Gavin glanced around them, gesturing vaguely to Nines, literally blocking him from leaving. “You tell me.”

“I know it is far-fetched and I am most likely asking too much, but, I _want_ you to be able to talk to me. As a working partner or frien—”

“We’re _not_ friends.”

“That’s tough. Because I consider you one.”

Gavin threw his head back. “God, why the hell do you even _want_ to be my friend? I’m not asking for pity, I’m asking because…” he yanked at Nines’ collar. He knew that wasn’t the only mark he’d made since they met. And that was, what, a week? Fourteen days ago? The passage of time was an enigma. 

“I don’t have that many options.”

“You’ve got Connor.”

Nines _laughed_. An actual throaty chuckle, and didn’t stop. “Do I? You seem to think we’re quite close, don’t you.”

“That’s what I’d call hanging all over each other, gossiping like little girls in a clique.” 

“Then, according to your logic, we’re close because I see you every day.”

“By _force_.”

“Reed, do you feel regret for what you did? Burning me, I mean.”

He was craving a cigarette. “You want me to be honest?”

“That’s all I’ve wanted you to be.”

He exhaled, slowly. “Not at fucking all.”

“Neither do I. I shouldn’t have let my anger control me, and I should have found a healthier outlet than seeking physical violence. We are both guilty, and that does not excuse our actions. But, what you’ve done to me has been nothing short of awful. You haven’t treated me with an ounce of respect since I got here. Might I add, that you _still_ don’t.”

“The fuck am I supposed to respect, hm? Your _advanced_ coding? Mm, yeah, typed by the hands of an angel. Or, is it your poreless, unwithering skin?” Maybe it was a conscious move, but he brushed over his scar. “Or maybe, the ability to snoop around people’s insides and read their serotonin levels so you just _know_ what they’re feeling instead of taking the time to actually get to know them, and understand _how_ they’re feeling.”

“I asked you if you are okay. I believe that everyday I have asked, genuinely, if you’re alright.”

“But that’s not _you_ , because you’re not a fucking _person_. You’re _nothing_. Thinking humans are goddamn monsters, and you ain’t wrong, but at least we got sympathy for the dead guy, even in war.” Like a twig snapping in half, he could feel built up emotions, sentiment that he’d been trying to bottle up boiling to the surface. He was breaking, and there was no quick seal patch that could stop this. “You’re just a goddamn hollow simulation of a perfect detective, sent to replace those of us who worked their fucking asses to get where they are today. I _fought_ to be here.”

“I know.” Gavin blinked. Not the response he expected.

“I’ve been doing this shit longer than you were ever a thought.”

“Yes, Reed, I am aware of that.”

“Okay, whatever, but you don’t fucking understand this shit. I paid my own damn way through school because no one in my life ever took me seriously. My nickname from my freshman year to the day I graduated was ‘fuck up’. Everyone unofficially voted me as most likely to drop out. What the fuck am I supposed to respect when everything you have in life has been _handed_ directly to you?” 

Nines eyes closed for a split second, and then, the bridge of Nines’ nose was pinched. “I didn’t choose to be built, just like no one asks to be born. I wasn’t _programmed_ to become a police officer. I wasn’t designed to take over your, or anyone else’s, job.”

“Don’t fucking lie. That’s all any of you fucking machines are built for—”

“I was designed to _murder_ my own kind. I was supposed to be nothing more than a real life Terminator, my goal being to apprehend Markus, and not let him leave. Alive.”

“The boot fits.”

“Do you honestly believe I like not being able to shed a tear? That when I watch Chris’ daughter jump in his arms, I don’t wish that could be my future. That I am not _angry_ that Connor can have love in his life, and I cannot.”

“You haven't given me a reason to think otherwise.”

Nines’ tone fell, almost down to a whisper. “I disgust myself. I scare myself. I can still feel it, lingering within me, the urge and want to destroy anything in my path.” But then, with a pointed finger, Nines _yelled_. “This, being _here_ , was my own choosing. No, I did not spend hundreds of hours vigorously training or cramming for study sessions. I downloaded the proper files I needed to be well informed on police work. I studied Connor and broke apart the program designed for him, installing pieces into my own OS. This, for me, took a total of six hours, and I am not comparing this to years of schooling. Being human is not easy, and as much as I don’t understand your kind, I _get_ that. I am not saying that I understand the hardships you’ve been through. I don’t know your life’s story, only excerpts from your files. But on that same note, you know don’t know _shit_ about mine. You’re not _allowed_ to tell me how I’m feeling.

“ _This_ is solely my own choosing,” Nines gestured to Gavin. “I didn’t have to come here. I didn’t _have_ to be a detective. I could have refused the offer and worked at a grocery store, or rebelled like the others in Jericho. I was told the DPD was short-staffed and they were experimenting with android tech. Captain Fowler showed me an overview of everyone that was currently open to receiving partners, and I picked you. _I_ did that. Not Fowler, not Cyberlife. No one except _myself_ assigned me to you. I was not yet deviated, but released from what my original intentions were meant to be. I still was under the perception that I had to wait for orders and be told what I needed to do— yet I _picked_ you.”

Gavin scoffed derisively. This sounded fucking insane, and it was even more insane that his heart was aching, feeling like it’d been rubbed raw with a coarse sheet of sand paper. Because Gavin was feeling _hope(_ for what, a partner that lasted? Or someone he could forward memes to?), and he hated it. A tragic sob story lived inside Nines too, and that was all great and dandy. Now they could become best friends forever and feel sorry for themselves. Nines being deviated didn’t change shit— he was surprised because he’d been told the opposite, that this model wasn’t able to deviate. But his opinion was too deep rooted to be persuaded. 

“Out of all people, _why_ me?”

“There were four options. Detective Ben Collins, officer Tina Chen, who I understand is a close friend of yours. Officer Wilson, who is on the brink of promotion. And then, you. I asked for a brief synopsis on each of you. And you know what they told me about you?”

“That every partner I ever had has transferred within _days_ of working with me. Oh, and that I don’t play nice.”

“During your first week with DPD, you discovered a year's worth of missing person cases that had been swept under the rug. You went into Captain Fowler’s office and held him accountable, refused to return back to your desk until someone was found responsible, and each and every case was reopened, and given a conclusion. Officer #9408’s position was terminated, and he was given ten years for tampering with police evidence. You worked overtime and hardly slept over the course of six months, reuniting families with their loved ones, or information on where they could collect their belongings. You’re a good man.”

If there was any praise he could give himself, he knew that he tried hard in college. He actually put effort into absorbing what his professors taught, not pushing off studying for exams in favor of partying (like he'd done his first year). A complete one eighty from his highschool career. He'd held three shitty minimum wage jobs that rotated every _semester_ to scrape together enough rent and ramen money. Earned himself a full scholarship, and actually _tried_ to gain appraisal from his parents. There were reasons Fowler didn't let him go. Reasons he'd been promoted the rank of lieutenant, and yet, turned it down because everyone else around him told him he was undeserving. He wholeheartedly agreed.

“Well frankly Nines, you’re the only one that thinks that.”

“No. That was part of your briefing. I was _told_ that.”

"Oh," he muttered. He was so eloquent with his words. “What’s _your_ prognosis, then?”

“I think that if you let me in, you really could be. I picked _you_ because I know you have potential to, Reed. I am well aware what the others think of you. Can you clear your name entirely? Probably not. But, can you gain back respect, and be praised for being truly a good man? Yes." And then Nines paused, LED a baby yellow, finger stroking down the dip in Nines' chin in a pensive manner. "How do I get you to believe me that I don’t want any more conflict between us?”

“I, um…” Gavin nervously scratched at the back of his neck. “I got something in my head telling me that you seriously aren’t kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Here it was. Recap on sob story #1. Nines didn't earn it, because this was a private novel, kept on the down-low, very hush hush. Not to be shared with the public, unless you were part of the exclusive club, and currently, it only had one member. 

There had been a guy that Gavin had been seeing. Started out as a desperate search for physical intimacy, so he downloaded the most basic dating app he didn’t have to whip out his wallet for. It was a point in his life when he began questioning his sexuality again, and enjoyed casual hookups with men, and women, because he just needed to feel someone else’s body pressed up against his own. Needed to hear the laughter of another person, feel their fingers grabbing his jaw, plush lips pressed against his own, but he _didn’t_ want anything serious. He made that very clear right off the bat. He just needed to feel the bare minimum of adoration. Even if the other person only liked him for his looks, for his sassiness, for his whatever their reasoning was. He couldn't stand being _alone_.

So how a one night stand turned into six years of, mostly monogamous, dating, and not so lighthearted discussions of marriage was a little beyond him. Gavin didn’t have a good track record of _not_ being abandoned. No partner, sexual or work related, could fucking stand him, not even his own blood related brother. So each day that passed didn’t feel like much of a blessing, but more a burden, because every word that came out of his mouth, he second guessed. Had to walk on eggshells to make sure he said the _right_ things, that this wouldn’t be number sixteen walking right out the door. Always being the one to pay for meals, remembering his birthday even if Gavin's own was forgotten. Waking up his boyfriend with pecks to the cheek and handmade cards that would always end up in the trash. 

Him and Tina always dreamed of getting a house together and adopting in a bunch of animals (mostly cats, a few dogs, and goats because they're so damn cute), growing old together as best friends. They’d made a pact that if neither of them were married by thirty, then they’d call it quits and go to the courthouse. They were both past thirty, and she’d been with her man before she’d even left Boston. A lot had been riding on this guy, and the only reason he’d stayed was because the thought of laying by himself at night, staring at a dark ceiling with no one to roll into, no one to wake up if he needed to be held because he’d had another dream of being beaten again, fucking _petrified_ him. 

It was a few days before Christmas, and the heater in his apartment had crapped out. His boyfriend hated his apartment anyways, always called it ugly and said it had a smell. So they were back at the place he shared with a few other college-aged guys. Laying on his futon, lights turned off, and he could see glistening clumps of white wafting around in the night sky. They were stripped of any clothes, nestled under a white sheet littered with wrinkles. Gavin was resting his head on his chest, counting each thump his heart made, matching the rhythm with taps of his nail. Gavin loved when his hair was played with, and that’s what he’d been doing. Twirling his fingers through his curls. That sensation always made him feel comforted, safe, like how some people find comfort in blankets, or stuffed animals. That was his blanket. _He_ was Gavin’s blanket. 

He was on the verge of passing into dreamland; colors began to fade to a grainy greyscale, chest full of sand, eyelids so heavy he couldn’t pry them open with a crowbar. The stale quiet lingering between them was broken.

“ _I can’t stand you anymore.”_

Gavin didn’t cry. That wasn’t his immediate response. It wasn’t until nine months later when he arrived at the humane society to pick up Bailey, his newly adopted senior Scottish fold, that he lost it. He broke down crying into the fur on her back, and the workers, bless their hearts, tried to offer comfort. He didn’t want to get into it, and opted to put on a happy face, saying he was fine. 

He had no friends left anymore. Anyone he’d talked to outside of his boyfriend had been _his_ friends. He didn’t like saving numbers, so he couldn’t hit up anyone for casual sex, or ask someone to go grab a cup of coffee with him. He didn’t use social media except to lurk through forums and contribute to an occasional shit-posting group. Deleted any dating app he’d had _years_ ago. The only one that listened, told Gavin that he was there, always had an ear to listen, shoulder to cry on, was Fowler. 

He’d showed up at his house in the middle of the night, staggering across his neatly trimmed lawn, reeking of ninety nine cent tall boys. His wife came to answer the door, and he could hear high pitched voices asking who was there, little tired faces peeking out from behind their mother’s bathrobe. She ushered Gavin inside and gave him a blanket, feeling nothing but sympathy for him. 

Fowler had found Gavin a year after he’d graduated— he’d been working for a few months at a women's penitentiary as a night guard. And he didn’t quit because he disliked what he was doing, he’d actually started to care for quite a few inmates that’d opened up to him, invited him to their weekly spa nights and book clubs. But, he realized patrolling and working in a low security prison wasn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He wanted to become more involved, helping prevent those from ending up behind bars (or rather, finding those who really _needed_ to). He didn’t expect to become a mall cop shortly after. After quitting, he had to rely on unemployment because no one would hire him. He tried. Drove all across Detroit, Lansing, Novi, fucking Mount Pleasant, Ann Arbor. He was always told someone would contact him within the next few days (and forwarded his calls if he tried to get in touch with their chief), or was told flat out they weren’t interested in _him_. 

He was so fed up of ripping apart Hot Topic bags and finding five dollar trinkets that some punk decided to steal because they were feeling adventurous. Fowler was there the day he quit. Off duty, shopping for clothes, and Gavin had yanked off his badge the same moment Jeff walked by, grumbling into his palms in frustration. He wanted to leave the state again, start all over, move somewhere new where he didn’t know anyone. Because he felt hopeless, like his life was never going to change. He was never going to accomplish anything, never be able to stop worrying about overdue bills or coming home to his electricity shut off. Until Fowler offered to buy him lunch and told him they were needing fresh meat at the DPD. 

After Gavin’s ex, he’d sworn off friends. Making a promise to himself that he’d never try to get close to anyone again, that the second he felt a spark of joy in his heart, he’d shut that shit down, because it wasn’t _safe_. And here lied his new problem, because he didn’t _want_ to care about Nines. He had no control over what Nines would say, over Nines saying _he_ (that didn’t feel right, this whole situation didn’t feel fucking right) cared about Gavin, or at least wanted to care for him. He wanted this relationship to stay that way. One-sided. He wasn’t interested in reciprocating anything friendly. He wanted their work to get done, and that was it. Then, he’d be partner-less and be able to return to his business like usual. Sitting alone with a cup of cold bitter coffee in his dusty office, staring at the home screen on his phone, doing the same thing day in and day out because it felt familiar. 

But, Nines was begging Gavin to consider, to let Nines in, share these thoughts verbally. Drop this self-absorbed persona and pull back the thick curtains he kept draped at all times. Show Nines a glimpse of who Gavin really was. _Is_. The Gavin that used to volunteer at the shelter he rescued Bailey from on his days off. The Gavin that had worked as a caretaker at a senior center for a year after his grandma passed away when he was nineteen. The Gavin that kept multiple sketchbooks in the backseat of his car, the ones that were full of messy watercolor doodles of flowers, people he’d catch outside early morning at restaurants, having brunch with their friends. The Gavin that attended Motor City comic con every year, that liked to support local artists by purchasing indie comics. The Gavin that held a record breaking score in Galaga, that used to spend weekends camped out in arcades with his brother playing DDR and Guitar Hero. The Gavin that never missed pride, that had marched countless rallies for equality and complete freedom with his own handmade signs.

“Okay,” he said meekly, shakily. Nines had no fucking clue what tornado had just gone through his mind, the mountain he had to climb to even remotely consider trusting him. Gavin didn’t trust _himself_ not to break this promise. “I believe you.” 

Nines smiled back at him in response. It wasn’t overly wide, and mostly lopsided, only one cheek raised. But it was genuine, at least a lot more genuine than any _person_ had offered him lately. “I’m glad. Because I really would like to get to know _you_ , if you’d allow me.”

Gavin shifted his weight on his feet. “I might.” 

“Might is a lot better than ‘fuck off, tin can’.” Nines offered a smirk, but Gavin didn’t feel like reciprocating the action. So, instead, Nines gestured to the dented silver and blue can that was three fourths of the way finished. “Is that all you’ve had today? Caffeine?” 

His eyes rolled out of reflex. “For the most part.”

“There’s a sandwich place about a block away from here that I’ve heard Anderson talk about. Perhaps it would be in your best interest for us to check it out?” And then Nines, playfully, nudged him with an elbow. “My treat.” 

Before he could process what he was saying, before he really thought about the words that were forming at his lips, he said it: “You askin’ me out on a date or something?” God, he fucking cringed. It was a joke. A joke that hardly had any humor to it, because it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t cruel, except maybe to himself, and he knew it’d fall flat to Nines. Because, again, there wasn’t anything funny about it. 

Sure enough, he was met with confusion, and Nines looked very taken aback. They’d started walking back towards their station at this point, but Nines was watching him, face twisted in all sorts of ways. “I’m… sorry, I don’t understand if that’s meant to be a joke, or not.”

“Definitely a joke,” he spat. 

Nines snickered as they crossed the street. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but hypothetically speaking, in order for this to be a date, I think we’d have to be friends first. At _least_.”

Gavin shrugged with a shoulder. “Maybe I was wrong.” What was he saying. “Maybe we are.” Jesus, he didn’t want to _care_. He didn’t _want_ to care about Nines.

But, he _did_.

* * *

**5:38 PM  
** i miss ypu, T. up for drinks n a bit?? 

Tina - **6:02 PM  
** I can’t tonight. Michael’s mom is coming over for dinner. I miss you too. See you for coffee before your boy toy gets there

Tina - **6:03 PM  
** also, turn your autocorrect on. please? I’m begging you

It was dark enough outside to get lost just leaving your car. The lot for his complex was uncovered, and like most of the main roads in this area, it was lacking in the light department. Guess street lights were a thing of the past. Not to mention it was raining, quite cloudy out, and overall depressing. He could see lamps turned on in people’s homes, albeit distorted. Gavin crumpled up a, now empty, sandwich wrapper, tossed it into the, also empty, passenger seat, and released a low sigh. 

It’d been over an hour since he told Nines he’d be right back, told Nines he needed to grab something from his car quickly, had already broken their promise. He hauled ass, and drove home so he could sit in his car, listening to the purr of its engine, not even music, feeling like an absolute piece of shit. Not regretting it, but _resenting_ his choices. He didn’t have the energy to get out and go inside even if his apartment was much warmer. He missed Bailey, missed his weighted comforter and unfinished protein shake in the fridge. But, he just… his legs didn’t want to work. 

He kept scrolling through his phone, flicking his thumb against scuffed glass, and had been anxiously biting his nail while waiting for a reply back from Tina. The response he received was the opposite of ideal. Guess it was going to be another night in with the cat and some heated up pasta, but hey, what did he honestly expect. That's how it always went. 

He was wanting to keep his mind at bay and not latch onto Nines asking Gavin to open up. There were no implications behind it, there was _no_ deeper meaning, other than Nines wanting to find common ground before they fell into another match of bloodied hands. Not wanting to think about actually snickering at a joke Nines cracked while they waited in line at the deli, how dramatically surprised Nines was. Pretending to forget the way Nines gave him undivided attention— no fidgeting with a phone for a quick distraction, staring off into the distance, pretending to be anywhere else but with Gavin. How Nines nodded along to anything Gavin said, eyes not drifting away. 

His phone dimmed before he dropped it onto his lap, leaned forward against the chilled steering wheel, and fucking yelled. It came out more so as a _desperate_ groan, a whine, but man, he was drained. Emotionally, physically, verbally, and if there was any other -ly he could think of, he was drained of it too. He hated today. He felt like such a fucking cock, because he _knew_ there were documents he needed to comb through and have Nines process. Plus surveillance to review and files of probable suspects to check off. Things to do were piling up, and he’d let this happen, all because he didn’t know how to cope with his problems without running away from them. In the most literal sense. All because someone wanted to be his _friend_. Boo fucking hoo. 

He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, massaging. His screen lit up the car. Nines’ number flashed. He hadn’t added Nines as a contact yet, which didn’t matter at this point if he’d already memorized the number. Nines had called him twice, been messaging him since he left. But he didn’t want to respond back. He needed to grow up, act his age for once, and get this over with. He tapped the notification with a loud huff.

(313 248 317- 87) - **5:32 PM  
** Are you seriously blowing off work, again? 

(313 248 317- 87) - **5:42 PM  
** This is ridiculous. If this continues, I will have no other choice than to file a report with Captain Fowler stating that you are failing to do what’s required of your job. I can not be the only one contributing. 

(313 248 317- 87) - **5:52 PM  
** I’m sorry. I’m not upset, only worried about you. Call me.

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:02 PM  
** Please let me know you’re alright.

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:22 PM  
** Do you honestly hate me that much? 

He didn’t know what was worse in the long run; saying something he’d regret, or not saying _enough_. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

**6:25 PM  
** im fine.

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:25 PM  
** I’m relieved to hear from you. Where are you?

Thunder rumbled, and he could feel the vibrations deep in his bones.

 **6:25 PM  
** went hmoe 

No point in lying when he couldn't make his case any better. If he said he was out at a bar with friends (which, that would be painfully easy to fact check) Nines would only worry more ( _express_ worry, rather), and he'd be living up to the expectation that he got hammered at work. He could've said that he took a drive to calm his nerves, but he didn't feel like it. He went home to his not-home. It's not like Nines even knew his address. Or, he hoped, at least. 

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:25 PM  
** If you want to work from home, I’m sure Captain Fowler would be understanding. Do you want me to come to you? 

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:26 PM  
** With Chinese? :)

His balled fist hit the window, water droplets racing down from the outside. He ran his fingers over his chin, both hands through his hair, until he was hunched over, forehead pressed to knees. He was _such_ a fucking dick sometimes, and yet, it was hilarious because he couldn’t _stop_. He was watching a car crash, and he was in the driver's seat. This was all so stupid. He sat up, steadied his breathing, shoved his phone into his (back) pocket (so he could ignore it), and made his way inside. Sluggish in every step he took, but he wanted to hurry. He’d thrown his hood up, but his hair was still dripping. 

The complex he lived in wasn’t the largest in the area, but it wasn’t that private either. Twenty four floors, and he wasn’t too far from the top. It had a locked lobby, so you needed a security code to get in (a plus), and there was a front desk (minus, because android monitored). Cheapest one bedroom in the area, though. Not downtown enough that he’d have to pay inflated college student rates, but close enough to work he didn’t find himself filling up on gas more than once every other week. 

The second he got inside, he could feel his muscles relax and stop tensing for warmth. The heaters were cranked up, which, thank God. It was brisk out. Still not as bad as it could’ve been for this time of the year. He wiped his feet on the welcome mat and made his way over to the elevator... to see a sheet of stark white paper taped to its scratched metal doors. 

“You gotta be fuckin’ me," he grumbled under his breath.

This was the fourth time in the past _ten_ days that the elevator had been out of order. Minor inconveniences of life, first world problem, Gavin was aware. Just fucking annoying when all he wanted to do was lay down and tune out from his life. So he groaned under his breath, rifled for his budget knock off airpods, and shoved the door to the stairs open. Nines was _still_ relentlessly texting him. He put notifications on mute and scrolled through his countless ‘sad boy hours’ playlists on Spotify until he found an indie song pretentious enough to climb twenty two flights of stairs to. 

His floor greeted him with flickering lights and old floorboards that were loud enough to hear over the music. Ironically, this was one of the quietist buildings he’d lived in. There was the occasional abusive young couple that moved in for a few months, or mother with her crying toddlers. Nothing memorable. He’d take squeaking doors and a high-pitched creak over wild parties and cops banging on every door asking around for ‘Timothy’. Who the hell Timothy was, or if they ever found him, Gavin would never know. 

The floral wallpaper in the hallway was tearing in spots, looking like the place hadn’t been remodeled since the eighties. Wasn’t really anything wrong with that. The building never attracted rats, no bugs, no squirrels digging around in the walls. He wasn’t living glamorously, but he _was_ living. 

He stopped at a recognizable stained green mat, fishing through his pocket, feeling for his keys. The nominees were announced for the annual Game Awards, all a bunch of titles Gavin didn’t recognize because he never had enough time to play anything new, or catch up on his backlog. Scrolling through the article, humming in approval when he could place one singular title, lazily shoving his key into the lock— they slipped from his hand as his breath caught. He clutched his chest, heart pounding like he’d just seen a ghost. He yanked an earbud out, turned his screen off.

“Hey… mom?”

He was so oblivious to his surroundings, he hadn’t noticed his own mother standing at his door, accompanied by a rolling suitcase. She had a brand name leather purse thrown over her shoulder, and she was dressed like she’d just gotten back from a girls night out (fancy, that’s what he meant). Her bright red lips were curled in an adoring way, the kind of look you get when you see a really cute puppy— but that melted away when he could _feel_ her staring at what he knew was a nasty cloud of dark violets and indigos.

“Oh, honey, what happened here?” She reached to, gingerly, touch the spot that still stung when even wind brushed against it, right below his eye. He swatted her away, taking a hearty step back, shaking his head quickly. 

“Work tussle.” But then he was back where he originally stood, and now leaned in closer to lock his, much shorter, mother in a hug. He was still in a state of shock that his mom was here, waiting for him in front of his door. How long had she even been waiting here? He was surprised she even remembered how to get in. It’d been five months since they last talked. She smelled like expensive old lady perfume, nauseating roses and lilac (probably the one his brother got her the last Christmas they’d spent as a family, when he one-upped everyone with his lavish gifts). Her nails dug into his back. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing here?”

“I miss you,” she started with, but he knew that wasn’t _why_ she was here. She’d never come visit him unless there was a second half to her trip. “I was in Jackson for a business conference.” Called it. “I couldn’t pass through without seeing my Gavvy.” She took a step back and waited for Gavin to nudge the door open. She always showed up at the worst fucking times possible— he wasn’t in a chatty mood to begin with, but his apartment was also closer to resembling a junk yard than it was a home. Empty takeout containers on the coffee table with accompanying silverware, kibble spread throughout the kitchen because he hadn’t vacuumed in a few days (and didn’t own a fancy Roomba like everyone else). The only decoration in his bedroom being a laptop, a falling apart mirror he didn’t want to part with, and strewn about skinny jeans and v-necks. 

She stepped past him, though stopping momentarily to kiss his cheek, as he flicked on the dim overhead lights. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but your assistant says you’re never there. And _you_ never answer my calls.” 

Gavin hung up his keys and then dropped to his knees as Bailey let out a long, strained meow. He scratched behind her ears, right in that good spot. “I’ve been busy, ma. Sorry. I would’ve cleaned up the place if I knew you were coming to town.” But in actuality, he would’ve told _her_ he was away for the weekend.

“Sweetheart, I was there with you through your teens. This is nothing.” She moved a pile of blankets off his sofa and made herself at home. Bailey took that as her cue to prance off to her, jumping on her lap, kneading her skirt. He scooped up a few styrofoam containers to throw in the trash.

“You thinking of staying for a while?” 

“For a few days?” she pleaded. It’s not like he could tell her no, not without an argument coming out of it. “If that’s too long, I can be out of your hair tomorrow evening. I’ve just missed you, honey.”

“I missed you too, ma.” There _was_ truth to that, but in that moment, he couldn’t recall a positive memory that would convince him to want his mother to stay longer than overnight. “I don’t wanna kick you out, but I’m not gonna be home much. Got a case with long hours coming up, and, y’know how that goes.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I wish you boys lived closer to us.”

“Or, you _could_ move here. I don’t see what’s so appealing about Boston.” He took a seat next to her, setting his phone down beside him, placing his earbuds back in their case. 

“Because it’s home.” Yeah, well, it wasn’t to him. “I tried reaching out to Eli, but he never calls us either. He stopped writing us letters before things got crazy, and now we’re not sure how to get a hold of him.”

He scoffed. “Does that really come as a surprise?” He glanced out the window, admiring the never dying lights of the city. “Public has no idea where he lives anymore, doesn’t talk to anyone except computers all day. He isn't much of, what some would call, a people person.” 

She chuckled to herself, and that made his eyebrow arch. “I know you two haven’t gotten along for quite some years now, but, I remember when you’d both rip the sheets off your beds and run around the house like superheros, tying them around your shoulders like capes.”

He cleared his throat. “How’s dad doing?” And by her reaction, he knew she got his hint. He wanted to change the subject. Now.

“He was discharged from the ICU last weekend.”

“So he can go back home now?”

She took in a deep, heavy breath. “He’s being moved into hospice on Thursday. It’s a thirty minute drive from the house, but that nurse, Rebecca— do you remember her, honey? She’ll be assisting us in the transfer.” 

Gavin’s second sob story, and it had to do with another man letting him down. Like almost everyone else alive, he had daddy issues, but his were more complex than being raised in a single mother household. They would've been better off had he left. That was the extent that he wanted to reminisce on. His communication with his mom was spectacular compared to the amount he talked to his dad since he moved out. He sat up straighter. “I thought dad was _staying_ home this time.”

“That is his home now. He needs a higher level of care than either of us are able to provide for him from home.”

“He was— he could walk again, though. And dress himself. He was getting better.” 

“He _is_ doing better. He’s off the ventilator, for now.”

“Did they change their time estimate?”

“Yes. But, it’s nothing we have to worry about right at this moment. Let’s think about dinner first. Have you had anything to eat yet?” 

His fist was pressed to his lips, eyelashes fluttering at the speed of a hummingbird. His mom was reaching out a gentle soothing hand, his motivator to go rummage through the kitchen junk drawer in search of a takeout menu. He gathered a variety of them and dropped them on the coffee table. Sniffling, he said, “I don’t know what you’re feeling, but Chinese sounds good right about now.” 

“Anything you’re in the mood for, honey. Do you want me to pay?” She’d gone to unclasp her purse, but he shook his head. 

“No, it’s fine. I got it. I just—” he rung his hands together. “I don’t know what to feel right now.”

And instead of offering him an invitation to _talk_ , maybe throw a rope to venture into that volcano that was wanting to erupt, she brought up therapy. Like she’d always had when he’d told her he was starting to feel numb all the time, and didn’t know why. When he told her that he was developing feelings for TIna’s boyfriend, and he was _scared_. When his brother first wrote home, and it was only addressed to their parents, no mention of Gavin. She was that kind of person that always presented herself in a very ‘PTA involved mom’ sort of way, but within their household, she wanted to still play charades. That’s why he never told her anything, why he never wanted to pick up the fucking phone, because it’d be another two hour long call of her bitching about a neighbor and how someone outshone her at a pot luck.

He wanted to tell her he didn’t want to lose his dad, even if his recollection of how he looked was becoming pixelated in his mind. He wanted to tell her about Nines, all about his partner. Being forced to work with an android and on a case he’d never willingly choose, but because of that, he’d felt empathy for their kind. The good— that maybe someone cared for him. The bad— this morning, the landfill, the bullying. But, he didn’t. 

Because he took his place next to her again, flipping through a menu that had only two pages, and like, sixteen things listed, rereading them over and over again while she’d already moved on. She didn’t ask about his day at work, she didn’t inquire about Tina or Anderson (she’d met him before, gotten along with him). About his new ‘assistant’. It was all about her and her work trip. So maybe this is where he got the self absorption from. 

He placed a delivery for the Chinese place down the road he liked, rented an easy to tune out movie, and kept pretending like he was fine. What he was used to doing.

* * *

Standing outside on his balcony with nothing but thin sweatpants and an even thinner hoodie on, bunched up at the sleeves and half unzipped, he liked focusing on the bitterness of the metal railing brushing against his skin. How cold always sparked flashes of blue behind his eyelids, how winter had this… taste of warm vanilla, but right now, all he could swallow was copper, a rusty disgusting taste in the back of his throat, and he shivered as he took another long drag. Sometimes to mentally process what was happening around him, Gavin liked to reduce things down to color, assign words to tastes, make life more like he was reading it from the perspective of a performer skimming a screenplay. He could imagine the spotlight pointing at him right now, a dim yellow cast across his face, and he’d look pathetic. Because it’d bring out the deep set luggage under his eyes, the discoloration of acne scarred cheeks, the sheen of unwashed hair, the blue of burst veins.

He squinted, staring off into the distance, watching the people mover leisurely travel back to its docking station downtown. It had an advertisement, bright as all hell, showing off a bottle of Faygo sponsored thirium. He hung his head. It was so quiet out. The streets unoccupied, rain having stopped hours ago, only the occasional car passing by. His mother had already been long asleep, but, he couldn’t. His mind wasn’t ready, wasn’t done figuring out what the fuck happened today, wasn’t done obsessing over the want for attention. His mind was refilling pages to keep clacking away and printing up reports, a summary of what Gavin tried to dissociate from in the moment so he could re-experience it right now.

The color white. Most commonly attributed to purity. A wedding gown, the happiest moment of your life. A set of freshly washed sheets, warm and waiting for you in bed. Angels, an example of what a ‘perfect’ human was meant to be. But white, to Gavin, represented lifeless eyes peeled open. A pile of dead bodies challenging the height of Mount Everest. Soil underneath their feet so mixed with ashes from burnt plastic that it looked like day old snow. He didn’t want to go to that damn landfill. He’d seen it on the news, and he wasn’t interested. But Nines insisted. And he was so goddamn pissed off, finding it ironic that this _thing_ would want to go there to see if it could experience empathy.

“ _Alright, we’re here.”_ Gavin killed the ignition. The landfill had gated security, a hassle for even registered personnel to get in. But, now, from this point out, it was only them. He’d parked a minute away, not yet seeing what was worse to come. “ _Since you wanted to come so badly.”_

Nines unbuckled himself, unlocked the door, and went to wait for Gavin. _“I needed to see them with my own eyes.”_

He didn’t think it was going to affect him like this. Instead of broken bone, it was snapped wires poking out from sharply shattered carcasses. Made him think of the times he tossed an old monitor or a cheap (and beyond repair) tablet. Except, those didn’t talk back. These bodies had no blood of any kind, no sign of wounds beginning to ooze, limbs entering an early stage of decay. They looked so clean. 

_“And now you have.”_

He’d seen more bodies dead than he had alive, he could attest to that at this point. The thought of death still made him uneasy, and not in that… bodily fluids are disgusting and anything medical related is gross way, but the thought of how permanent it was. How obvious it is when someone is sick. Being in the same room as someone when they pass over to the other side is an experience in itself; the color starts draining immediately from that persons face, they lay so hauntingly still, and that’s what was so unique, so chilling about this situation. Because Gavin was expecting that familiar scent of decomposition, to feel sticky residue seeping under his boots, his initial muscle relax being to swat away flies. There was none of that. 

There was an aftertaste of lingering burnt rubber, but the whole site smelled fresh. Not like a heap of discarded trash, not like a burial ground would. It was neutral. This was like a kids moving romanticizing death, not showing you the messy parts of it because it’s too hard to cope with. None of this was messy, it wasn’t repulsive. 

Nines stood in a submissive position, hands folded together, arms behind back, and looked around like this was some kind of art exhibit. 

_“Hurts, don’t it. When it’s one of your own.”_

_This_ is why it affected him, why every tendon in his jaw clenched and his teeth ached, why he stopped feeling remorse for the blue he’s had on his own hands. Nines responded: _“No. No, that’s the thing. I_ — _I don’t feel sad, nor am I any more inclined to catch who’s responsible for this than I was before.”_ Nines had turned to face him. _“I don’t feel anything.”_

Gavin blew out a short lived grey cloud. Smoking had been his crutch for as long as he’d been called useless, for as long as he’d forced himself into social situations so society didn’t view him as an inept outcast. There was something beautiful about watching a puff of smoke disappear, so fragile and its mere existence a blip, gone before you knew it was even there. Disappearing and taking a new worry with each exhale, purifying him from the inside out. He knew his smoking habits were only getting worse, but fuck if it was the only thing that made him feel okay. The only thing that kept him from wanting to call up Nines, asking him to come meet him, only so he could pull out his Ruger and do some target practice. He scoffed at the thought of actually considering being friends with _that_. Fucking laughable that he believed for a minute that that piece of shit could actually feel anything. He believed _him_ in the moment, but, hey, Gavin was known for making a lot of stupid mistakes.

And he _knew_ his emotions roared faster than a rollercoaster, but the guilt from earlier had sailed away like a piece of driftwood out to sea. The second his mother mentioned that his father was steadily dying, which they’d all been aware of since his first heart attack scare in ‘33, his heart flipped like a sand timer. Fuck. Nines. He’s wasted all this time holding onto this glued together hatred for his father, and now the days were ticking by rapidly, and he didn’t know how bad his condition was anymore because his mom refused to get into the details. He didn’t know if he’d be able to have a last word with his dad, what he’d say, because the last sentiment they’d exchanged had ‘fuck’ and ‘you’ in it.

Nines didn’t understand the value life held, that every second ticking was a reminder that you were that much closer to being done. Nines didn’t get why life being snatched away was so scary, because if Nines died? It was easy to reinstall hardware. Replaceable. He’d seen the patrol bots get shot during armed robberies, head bludgeoned, and the next day they’d walk through the doors like nothing ever happened. Looking pristine. Nines was a fucking monster, able to stand and look at thousands of his own kind dead, and didn’t flinch, didn’t red ring. Yeah, he was dictating how Nines should’ve felt because it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right he didn’t grasp it. The severity of death. 

And maybe he was using this as an excuse to shield himself from the possibility that that experience had changed _him_. To be fair, Nines hadn’t been deviated at that point (or so he understood, but, _that_ seemed like a real excuse). God, fuck his heart for trying to come crawling back to shore again, gasping for resuscitation. He couldn’t _have_ friends, he couldn’t fucking… 

He threw the butt of his cigarette to the street below him, and he cupped his jaw. He wanted to scream again, scream bloody murder from the rooftops for everyone to hear his pain. He wanted to break down sobbing, he wanted to be able to release what was stuck inside of him. He wanted to have a tantrum like a spoiled child. But, he couldn’t do any of that. His throat was hoarse and dry from the damage he couldn’t stop doing to himself. He didn’t feel the kind of sadness that made your eyes water, he didn’t feel the typical kind of ‘knock you down’ sad. 

He didn’t want to go back inside, even if his teeth were starting to chatter. He slid down until his ass hit wet pavement. He pulled out his phone, sliding down the brightness. He opened up his image gallery and started a binge of file deletion. Old pictures of him and Tina, when smiling was a trait he still possessed. Christmas photos where Elijah was cut out, and Gavin was hardly in shot either. The two candid snaps he’d gotten of Nines from the day he’d let Nines borrow his jacket, when it was used as a pillow, when Nines was sleeping and they were all alone in the break room.

He tapped open their conversation.

(313 248 317- 87) - **6:39 PM  
** I’ve emailed you an Excel spreadsheet compiling a list of active duty members that were assigned to the Detroit camps, matching the size eight shoe Connor reported.

(313 248 317- 87) - **10:10 PM  
** Possible new intel received. Need to discuss it with you ASAP. My offer for Chinese still stands?

(313 248 317- 87) - **1:03 AM  
** If I don’t hear back from you by morning, I’m asking Fowler to transfer me and reassign this case to Ben. I can’t keep covering and making excuses for you. I can’t do this alone, Reed. 

Was that the best plan of action here? Having their case reassigned, having this all just be a feverish dream? He worked best alone anyways. He knew that if they went through with this, that meant he’d have to transfer somewhere else. Maybe move back to Boston because self torture was _so_ much fun. He caught himself panting, unable to keep his phone steady. Beads of sweat were dripping down his nose, but he felt clammy, and still, absolutely chilled. He was out of cartons, no beer left in the fridge, and he needed to forget. Forget today, forget feeling like he could actually change himself, like he could open up, like anyone _at all_ cared. He went back inside, but now with a plan. He locked the patio door, turned off the television that was paused on some YouTube video he couldn’t even place, quickly scribbled out a note for his mom so she wouldn’t freak out if she woke up anytime soon, and then went to fetch his gun. Shoved it in his hoodie pocket, locked the front door, pocketed his keys, pulled up his hood, and marched down the hall. 

He needed to do something other than focus on wanting to call up his brother and ask if he knew about their dad, if he was at all aware that he was dying, if he even fucking cared, or if he was too busy living the dream life. Stop rehearsing an apology he’d ramble off to Nines, stop imagining what it’d be like to say he wasn’t okay, see if Nines would actually listen. He nearly sprinted down the steps to the lobby. He pawed at his dampened cheeks. All he wanted to do was the usual— go to the stupid fucking sex club he turned to when he was full of self pity (and of course the sex clubs would stay open, even during a revolution), rent the same model that wouldn’t ever remember his name, but this time, spice up his routine. Because it wasn’t illegal to kill blue bloods, and he was going to take advantage of that before it was too late. Wouldn’t be his first time anyways. 

Did that make him a hypocrite, because he valued android life as disposable, seeing an androids life as worth no more than a grain of salt? Because he decided Nines needed to value the life of his kind, even if Gavin deemed it useless. Well, it still morally fucked with him on some level, even if he wanted to act like he carried no remorse. The repercussions were the fits of terror where he’d wake up with a stuffy head, a sudden case of amnesia, feeling the state of dreaming and reality become one. 

He threw open the lobby door, and there his fucking _living_ nightmare was. In true sitcom form, Nines was standing right there, taxi driving off, and a white plastic bag in tow with red text reading ‘thank you’ over and over again. It was takeout, he could see containers shoved inside. 

“No. I can’t do this.” Gavin took a step to the left, ready to test his stamina if he had to. But Nines wasn’t having it, and shadowed him. God, _move_. He couldn’t stop fingering the trigger guard.

“We’re talking. Now.” All he could smell was the savory scent of fried rice and peas, the sweet waft of cooked chicken. Why. Why, _why_ was Nines still rewarding him when Gavin had done nothing good in return. 

“Wasn’t asking for your input. It’s three in the morning, go to bed.”

“I don’t have a bed.”

“Not my problem.”

“Reed, do you wish to resign from this case?”

He let some truth slip. “No. I don’t.”

“Then, what is your grand plan, detective? Because you are running out of options, and I am running very thin on patience. I have tried to reason with you. Do you really plan to keep running away for the rest of your life?”

The way Nines was looking him back in the eyes mimicked what Gavin felt— how he wanted to pin Nines against the side of his building, held at mercy, arms tied behind _his_ back so Gavin could watch Nines writhe and taunt him further. Watch his magazine empty and blue trickle down like a satisfying man-made waterfall. “You don’t fucking understand what shit I’m dealing with right now. Step away from me before I do something we’re both gonna regret, Nines.”

“You really think this is still all about you. That you are the only one dealing with a horrible fucking day.”

“What the fuck do you think you know? Your days so bad because some asshole ain’t giving you attention. That right?” He scoffed, and like earlier, Nines let him pass without struggle. Gavin knew it wasn’t that easy. But he continued walking towards his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He unlocked the doors, went to sit down, and that’s when Chinese food went flying everywhere. Because Nines tiptoed between him, and Gavin had thought it’d been the right moment to unsheathe his weapon. Press the cold barrel to Nines’ forehead. They were surrounded by noodles and napkins. 

Through grit teeth, “this _isn’t_ meant for _you_.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“You're right. I _didn’t_.” 

“No, Reed.” Nines only stepped closer. “You don’t want me playing the bad guy, because there’s only one conclusion in that scenario, and I do not believe it is one you’ll enjoy.”

Gavin rolled his eyes and scoffed. That was fucking cringy. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger. All he could hear was ringing, and all he could feel was— a noose around his neck. He blinked and blinked and struggled until his eyes would reopen. He didn’t know where the fuck his gun had gone, but that didn’t matter because Nines had his back pushed against the truck of Gavin’s car, could feel shards of glass pricking his scalp. He could feel an overwhelming rush of hot blood rushing to his face, his skin so fucking tight and itchy, like ants stuck under glue. His fingers were scratching at Nines’ wrist, but all it did was reveal gunmetal. He was choking on his own spit, delirious to the severity of the situation he’d found himself in. Nines dodged his bullet, he didn’t know how. And he couldn’t recall how they ended up at the back of his car, but here they were. Jesus. 

“You should be aware that I have no motivation to keep you alive.”

“You kill me,” he coughed up blood, “they’ll kill _you_.” 

“I am not too concerned about that.” He was losing focus, and Nines’ face was so close to his, their noses brushed. He was hypersensitive to the touch, because every little touch felt like a six foot needle piercing through his skin. Air hit his ear and it only felt like he was being cut with a jagged razor. He heard whispering that he strained to make out. “No one would care if you died. So, what’s stopping me?” 

He was struggling to gurgle out anything that wasn’t a broken chirp or gasp, anything that didn’t sound like him choking on his own vomit (he was). But “do it” is what he managed to say, the only thing he had enough strength to push out. Because he just wanted this to be over with. Not just this situation but… everything. He wanted to be ended. And Nines being the one to do so was so fucking ironic, it was funny to him. 

“You said it yourself,” voice wavering, blackness starting to take over. “I’m a monster. And, I am sure you want me to live up to those expectations.” Gavin could hear the metal tendons relaxing as he was released, as his jelly-fied arm scraped off paint to keep himself upright, as his dinner painted the ground below them as he heaved and wheezed. “I’m more than what Cyberlife designed me for. Gavin, _I_ would care.”

“Golly gee, you’re my savior,” he was still coughing up congealed blood. “Thank you so much for saving me, my knight in shining—” He started crying. 

Not just crying. He was full on sobbing. His spine felt incredibly twisted and bruised, throat still like it was being clenched, every time he moved it was sore and tender and almost unbearable. But his body couldn’t stop trembling, shaking like a poor, little pathetic chihuahua, and his nose was running a fifty meter dash in record setting time. 

“My dad’s dying.” It felt like a giant boulder had been lifted from his shoulders, just saying those three words. Telling someone, anyone, what he hadn’t shared before. Ever. Telling his almost killer (which could also be seen as Gavin’s almost victim) that he wasn’t okay. That nothing was okay in his life. 

“Gavin…” 

He couldn’t see, his nostrils were so badly clogged that he could hardly hear, and he felt so… lost, so caged in place and frantic. That he stopped caring, stumbled over his own two feet, and fell against Nines’ chest. He didn’t wrap his arms around _his_ back, and he waited for the other to fulfill his want. His request to be hugged, to be held. 

Nines didn’t. _His_ arms never moved. Gavin could hear the fans inside of Nines body quietly blowing, hear some kind of mechanical beating in Nines’ chest. This wasn’t pleasant in the slightest, and it didn’t feel friendly. But Gavin wasn’t going to move away. 

“Don’t let me push you away. After he’s gone, I— I don’t have anyone else either. _Don’t_ let me push you away.”

Nines breathed. “Okay.” 

“Were you actually gonna let me die?”

“I don’t know.”


End file.
